


Fragrance

by ryttu3k



Category: Pocket Monsters | Pokemon (Anime), Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Pocket Monsters: X & Y | Pokemon X & Y Versions
Genre: Explicit Sexual Content, Fantasizing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Scents & Smells, Shameless Smut, Unwise lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-20
Updated: 2015-04-20
Packaged: 2018-03-24 22:29:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3786664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryttu3k/pseuds/ryttu3k
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Ahh, the fragrant flavour of oil."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fragrance

Professor Augustine Sycamore sits back in his chair, and smiles in satisfaction.

The first research session with Meyer and his Blaziken has gone well, and not just for the science that they've been able to do. Late at night so Meyer's identity is not revealed, the blinds drawn in the laboratory's upper levels, it's just the two of them (well, the two of them plus Blaziken - Garchomp is downstairs, already asleep; his staff have already gone home). It's comfortable, perhaps even intimate.

And oh, but isn't intimacy something he's been craving lately?

Augustine breathes in deeply, and the mingled aromas he can sense bring a smile to his face. A metallic tang from the equipment they used, sweet smoke (Blaziken is very good at setting things on fire), the distinct scent of sweat and masculinity - the fragrant flavour of oil.

Never let it be said that Augustine Sycamore has completely conventional kinks.

He lifts his head suddenly, registering a dark shape out of the corner of his eye, and focuses only to find that Meyer has, in all the excitement of the research, managed to leave his tool kit behind. Shrugging, he gets to his feet and ambles over, intending to set it aside and return it in the morning, and then he pauses even as he reaches down.

Laid on top of the tool box is the towel that Meyer had used earlier, spotted with machine grease, deeply scented with oil and sweat. Before, he had found himself irrationally annoyed at the towel as Meyer used it to absent-mindedly wipe the drops of sweat off his face and neck that Augustine had found himself wanting to lick off, but now...

Now...

Now, he grabs it and hurries back to his desk almost furtively, pressing the towel against his mouth and nose as his other hand fumbles with his belt buckle. He's not really sure _why_ he's acting so furtive, it's not like anyone is here, but the fragrance clinging to the towel is definitely having the intended reaction.

Scent is tied to memory, but it's also, he suspects, tied to imagination. The intermingled sweat and oil on the towel is producing delicious images, sensory memories - Meyer's arm around him as he pulled him from danger, the warmth of his hand in Augustine's own, the light glittering off the droplets in his hair, the solidity of his body, so close he can almost feel warmth radiating through his clothes.

Trembling fingers finally managing to unfasten his pants, Augustine rubs a thumb down the growing hardness in his underwear, closes his eyes, and lets memory slip into imagination, fevered daydreams and mental images that he knows will flash before his eyes every time he and Meyer are near.

He can picture, so very easily, the strength of his body - not the chiselled muscles of body builders, the cover models of men's health magazines he buys as a teenager 'for the articles' and guiltily touches himself under the blankets, flashlight in one hand, the other rather occupied. Meyer's strength is genuine strength, his hands coarse from work, unassuming at first glance but with steel under his skin, comfortingly solid and powerful. The body builders he used to lust over are all style with no substance; the sweat on Meyer's body shows that he is present and alive before him.

Impatiently, he shoves the fabric barrier of his underwear away, head tilting back in pleasure as his wraps his fingers around his cock and strokes down hard. What would Meyer's hands feel, the roughness of his palms and fingers, if they stroked him like he's doing to himself now? Would he push Augustine back in his chair, hands spreading his legs, tongue tracing the same pattern his fingers took? Would he bend Augustine over his desk, one hand gripping his hip hard enough to bruise, Augustine pressing the other against his mouth and nose as his tongue swirls around the tips of his fingers?

It's quiet in the laboratory, save for the sound of skin against skin and Augustine's increasingly gasping breaths, and he lets himself moan out loud, eyes tightly closed, lost in his fantasy as he slips one foot out of his shoe and props it up against the edge of his desk. In his mind's eye, Meyer is bent over him, eyes dark with lust as he runs his hands over every inch of Augustine's body, as thoroughly and as intensely as one of his machines, and the air is heavy with sweat and oil and pheromones.

Augustine moans a breathy, " _Fuck_ ," tilts his head back, stifles a whimper with the towel, inhales deeply, sighs out, "Oh Arceus - ah-h - Meyer -"

"...Yeah?"

Augustine yelps so sharply as he slams his foot back down to the floor and covers his lap that he actually startles _himself_ , never mind the red-faced man in the door frame. "...Hi," he mutters to the surface of his desk, feeling heat flooding his face.

Meyer chuckles awkwardly, reaching back to scratch the back of his head. "I came to pick up my tool box, but, uh -" There's a delicate pause. "It looks like you've already found it."

Augustine glances guiltily at the towel in his lap. "Ah - I'll wash the towel for you. Or replace it."

"You can keep it," Meyer suggests dryly, and just when Augustine is pretty sure he'd like for the ground to open up and swallow him whole, he hears an audible swallow and Meyer's voice suggesting, "...D'you want a hand?'

He's reasonably sure there's a comical screeching noise as Augustine's train of thought promptly derails. "What?" he whispers, actually lifting his head to look at Meyer properly and his gaze immediately landing on the rather obvious bulge in the front of his overalls.

"Well, you know -" Meyer starts awkwardly, "Since you were, ah - using your hand - and I thought I'd make a pun about how offering someone help involves lending a hand, and -"

"Meyer," Augustine cuts him off, hormones temporarily overriding the logical part of his brain that's asking if this is a good idea, "Get over here."

"I thought you'd never ask," he grins, and hurries over, dropping to his knees in front of the Professor.

Augustine makes a strangled noise at the back of his throat as Meyer's big hand surrounds his own, thumb flicking lightly over the head of his cock, and then outright groans as he lowers his head and gives him a languid lick. "I thought you were - giving me a hand, not a tongue," he manages breathlessly. Meyer laughs, and the vibrations send another pulse of pleasure up his spine.

But he can see Meyer's other hand stroking himself roughly through the fabric of his overalls, and Augustine comes to a snap decision as he curls his fingers through Meyer's hair, tugging very gently. "Wait," he breathes, "Sit down."

There's some moderately awkward fumbling and bumping of elbows as they swap positions, but Augustine wastes no time in unbuttoning the overalls, dragging them down to expose Meyer's erection, raising his eyebrows at the lack of underwear. "They get in the way," Meyer explains sheepishly, and Augustine simply shrugs as he straddles Meyer's hips, wraps his hand around the both of them, and strokes roughly. "And I thought I was giving _you_ a hand?"

"We can take turns," he grins, delighting in the way Meyer shudders and groans in his grip.

And yes, Augustine can sense him all over - can smell sweat and masculine musk, can feel the strength in his thighs, in his hand as it tugs the back of Augustine's shirt out of his pants and slides his fingers up his spine, can hear his moans, can see droplets beading on his skin, and just to complete the set, he leans forward and flicks his tongue over his Adam's apple, tasting salt.

"Meyer," Augustine groans against his throat, sitting back to take in the sight of him again.

"What do you want me to do?" Meyer says breathlessly, the droplets of sweat sliding his throat.

Augustine swallows hard, tries to work out a way to say 'throw me on my desk and fuck me so hard I won't be able to walk tomorrow' without sounding crass, fails to do so, and simply says it.

It's worth it just for the look on Meyer's face, really. "Merde," he mutters, "Do you have any lube?"

"No - but there is that machine oil in your tool kit."

"Uh, is that safe?"

Augustine has a doctorate and can think of several reasons why it's not, but instead he simply grins and says, "Probably not."

"Merde," Meyer says again, wraps his arms around Augustine's waist, and lifts him up to sit on his desk. "Don't go anywhere," he warns, and hurries to the tool kit, bending over it.

Augustine most definitely isn't watching the way his muscles flex under his thin shirt, or the way the overalls stretch tight over his backside. Not even remotely. He's definitely not staring as he wriggles out of his pants and underwear, taking his other shoe with it, and he's definitely not giving Meyer a slow once-over as he turns and approaches again.

"Do you like what you see?" Meyer grins, kicking off his boots and sliding his overalls down as he approaches, reaching up to tug his shirt off (and then replacing his hat - Augustine laughs involuntarily, fingers fumbling as he unbuttons his shirt).

And then Meyer is right there, unfastening the last buttons of his shirt and then using the fabric to haul him closer for a kiss that leaves Augustine dizzy and breathless, desperately trying to taste him, driving his fingers into Meyer's hair, nipping at his lip. Meyer tears his mouth from his and drops it to Augustine's collar bone, biting down gently, and Augustine groans.

"Give me the oil," he says breathlessly, and Meyer presses it into his hand. And then it's his turn to groan as Augustine squeezes a dollop into his other hand and brings it down firmly over Meyer's cock, smoothing the oil over his skin, the potent fragrance of it overwhelming his senses and igniting the fantasies that are apparently about to come true. "Where do you get this stuff?"

"Machine shops...?" Meyer laughs quizzically, gently pushing Augustine back against the desk, and he feels himself flushing all over as he lifts his legs up, ankles resting over Meyer's shoulders. "Ready?"

"Oh, god yes."

He's pretty sure Meyer actually says something else, but his own moan drowns that out, back arching as Meyer slowly pushes into him. He's big, big and strong to fit his build, his hands wrapped around the backs of Augustine's thighs, practically bending him in half as he fully buries himself and stops for a moment to catch his breath.

Augustine bites back an impatient growl. " _Move_."

"So demanding!" Meyer laughs, "You're such a power bottom."

"Are you complaining?" he only just manages to grin - only just managing, because Meyer has just pulled halfway out and then slammed back in again, and stars have exploded in front of his eyes. " _Fuck_."

Meyer thrusts again, hard, his grip on Augustine's legs deliciously tight. "I'm going to - take that as a sound of approval."

"Good. Because it i-is." Augustine's breath stutters for a moment; Meyer has just swung his legs down to wrap around his waist instead, and the change of angle has sent pleasure all through his body. Reaching up, he winds his fingers into Meyer's hair, hauls him down for another bruising, biting kiss, knows he'll have fingerprint-sized bruises on his legs tomorrow and not even remotely minding, because his skin feels like it's ignited and his spine feels white-hot.

"You're so pretty, Professor," Meyer says admiringly, and Augustine is half tempted to tell him not to call him 'professor' while he's busy being fucked on his desk, but all that really comes out is mostly a whimper.

The towel that started it all is lying on the desk within arm's reach, but he certainly doesn't need it now, not now that he can bury his nose against Meyer's throat, taste him and smell him, and Meyer is bent over him, eyes dark with lust as he runs his hands over every inch of Augustine's body, as thoroughly and as intensely as one of his machines, and the air is heavy with sweat and oil and pheromones, and Augustine tilts back his head and almost laughs as he feels his climax approaching, because if jerking off in his office while inhaling the smell from a used towel resulted in this, he'd definitely do it more often.

"Close," he groans jaggedly, "Fuck - Meyer -" And if he was going to say anything else, it's lost as Meyer wraps his hand around Augustine's cock and strokes hard, and Augustine inhales sharply and comes hard with a cry with the smell of oil and sweat all around him, just managing to register Meyer's own shuddering climax, the movement of his hips becoming erratic, slamming into Augustine in a stuttering staccato.

"Fuck," Meyer mutters into Augustine's shoulder as he comes down from it, "Fuck."

"Next time," Augustine says as his breathing slows and his heart rate approaches 'moderately normal' again and the uncomfortable feeling of oil actually starts to register, "Next time, we're getting a proper lube."

**Author's Note:**

> Don't be like Sycamore. Do not ever use machine oil as lubricant. Seriously.


End file.
